


Practical Lessons

by lordhellebore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Biting, Bloodplay, Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Violence, Werewolf Sex, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco was given to Fenrir when he was 16. Since then, Fenrir has never stopped trying to make him scream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practical Lessons

Fenrir grins, eyes flickering with lust in the dim candlelight as he looks down at Draco, who is lying on Fenrir’s bed, naked, trying in vain to struggle against his grip.

“Always the fighter,” Fenrir mutters lazily. He’s straddling Draco and has no difficulties holding him down by the wrists – Draco knows from experience that he’s not even really making an effort, and yet he’s incomparably stronger. Draco saw him lift heavy men as easily as if they were children.

Even as a human, Fenrir’s teeth are yellow and sharp like a wild beast’s. Draco knows that, too, from experience. It’s been three years since the Dark Lord gave him to Fenrir for his support during the war, and by now there are few places on Draco’s body that are unmarred.

Fenrir growls, his eyes going dark, and Draco braces himself for the pain, arching against his living restraints as Fenrir lunges forward and bites deep into Draco’s side. Skin breaks and warm blood trickles down on the sheets, but Draco stays silent. Again, teeth sink into his flesh, and again, he bucks against Fenrir and grits his teeth against any sound of pain, screwing his eyes shut tightly.

“I’ll make you scream, kid, and you know it.” There’s hot breath on his stomach, and this time, Draco almost feels as if his teeth must splinter under the pressure, but still, he stays mute.

Minutes tick by – Fenrir can rage in terrifying frenzy, but just as often, he’ll take it slowly, and tonight he savours every bite, every drop of blood that he licks off Draco’s skin. 

“You’re delicious,” he murmurs into Draco’s ear, making him shiver. “You always are. I knew you were the right choice from the moment I saw you.”

Draco remembers it as if it were yesterday; he was only fourteen and frightened of Fenrir’s feral smile and the barely restrained hunger in his eyes. For two years, those hungry eyes followed him, until the war was won and the Dark Lord handed Draco over to Fenrir to feast on him, his parents watching helplessly.

Draco is still struggling, he’s shaking and drenched in sweat mixed with blood. Taking deep breaths, Fenrir sniffs all over him, grunting with pleasure every now and then before he leaves yet another mark on already scarred skin. Still, Draco makes no sound.

“You’ve grown stronger, I’ll give you that,” Fenrir says in the end, before he quickly spins Draco around on his stomach, pressing his head into the mattress, fingers roughly gripping the long hair. It’s time now. 

Draco hisses as Fenrir’s thick cock thrusts into him without preparation, but the mattress swallows the sound, and it’s a familiar pain, as familiar as the biting. It’s never been different, not even on that night when Draco was barely sixteen and Fenrir claimed him like this for the very first time. Thrust after violent thrust, Draco is shoved deeper into the mattress, and as always his own cock is hard now and rubbing against the sheets in Fenrir’s rhythm. It’s torture.

He tries to pull himself together, but it gets harder the longer it goes on, and when finally, Fenrir’s cock brutally hits his prostrate and he bites down into Draco’s nape, he can’t help himself and the room reverberates with his howls as he comes in an inextricable mixture of anguish and pleasure. There are a few more thrusts, then Fenrir withdraws and lets go of him, leaving Draco to catch his breath. For a while, all Draco can do is lie on his stomach, shuddering and panting.

“I told you I’d make you scream, kid,” comes the amused voice from above when he’s regained his senses, and Draco slowly turns around and sits up.

Fenrir is watching him silently. He doesn’t move as Draco watches him in return, lets his eyes roam over hairy limbs and bulky muscles, a body so unlike his, and yet so similar, marked with the same kind of scars.

Finally, Draco looks into Fenrir’s eyes. They’re as hungry as ever, a hunger he knows is mirrored in his own eyes, now no longer grey but glowing amber with bloodlust. When he makes a move towards him, Fenrir smirks, his chin and teeth smeared with blood, and Draco, too, is now grinning. 

He’s young and has much to learn, but he has already surpassed many others, weaklings like Lupin who refused to ever turn completely. Draco is well on his way – he has killed humans more than once over the years, has got intoxicated on sweet flesh and blood, and his powers grow quickly – and while now, Fenrir is only humouring him as Draco tackles him and pins him to the bed, there will be the day when no struggling will help him, and there will be the day when Draco will make Fenrir scream.

A growl rises deep in his throat as he buries his nose against Fenrir’s chest and drinks in his scent – sweat and death. Then he bares his teeth.

“My turn.”


End file.
